


Why She Disappeared

by SimplyShelbs16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyShelbs16/pseuds/SimplyShelbs16
Summary: Post TFP. That video feed bothered Sherlock during the phone call. Something was wrong with Molly. When he figures it out, he hopes against all hope that they'll be able to find peace together, to heal together. Eventual romance ensues.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 20
Kudos: 61





	1. When It All Falls Apart

The ticking of the clock reverberated off the walls in the flat. It was too quiet for comfort, but that bloody ticking had Moriarty's taunting voice in his head on repeat. _Tick Tock Tick Tock._ There wasn't even a single meow to be heard. Sherlock Holmes didn't need to search the flat to know that Molly was gone. She left without a single word. Of course he knew she'd be back, but he saw it in her eyes during their last phone call.

 _The_ phone call.

He could see she had been hanging on by a thread, and when that phone call ended, he knew it had snapped. If only Mary were here to talk things out with her. _Mary._ He stopped to think about all these lives—his friends' lives—and how they've been ruined just by knowing him.

And God, the look on Molly's face…Sherlock knew something was wrong with Molly before the agonizing call even began. The woman he knew usually had a smile plastered to her face and a happy-go-lucky attitude. She would make the worst morbid jokes that Sherlock would always remember to laugh at when he was alone with her. The woman he saw through the hidden cameras revealed the pathologist's best kept secret.

He didn't know how long he stood in her sitting room debating over his next course of action. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock decided to listen to what his heart was saying instead of listening to the logic his head constantly threw at him. Pulling out his mobile, he began dialing the number of the one person who could possibly help him.

_"Mister Holmes?"_

"Anthea, I need you to do me a favor."

* * *

Molly was having the year from hell. Toby meowed from within his carrier. She set it down gently on the large area rug and lifted the latch up to let him out. Her eyes scanned the old cottage her gran had left to her. She had spent most of her teen years here, growing up with the watchful eye of her lovely grandmother. It probably wasn't smart to dredge up the very memories that Molly tried not to think too much about, but it was all she could do at the moment.

She didn't want to think about the phone call. Out of everything that had been hurting her, the words on the other end of her mobile was what ultimately shattered her. Her mind was twisted with so much confusion. Only an hour after he hung up on her, Molly haphazardly packed her bags with no knowledge of exactly where she was going to go until she climbed in the back of a cab. The past twenty-four hours had been such a blur, especially when Sherlock's words were the only thing she could remember clearly.

Upon gathering up her bags to bring into her room, a knock sounded on the door. Molly closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Stress threatened her getaway when she heard the voice on the other side.

"Molly? We need to talk."

In that moment, Molly released her grip on the bags, letting them drop to the floor. Toby hissed, running to the other side of the room. So much for forgetting. She threw open the door revealing a disheveled Sherlock Holmes, panic in his stormy blue eyes.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't kick your pompous, sorry arse right now," she snapped.

Despite how serious the situation was, Sherlock couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle at her greeting. "I can't give you a good reason not to. I've earned your anger. I'm not proud of it."

Her eyes flitted away in annoyance. "I don't want to talk about the phone call, so sod off." She grabbed the door to close it, but the fear in his eyes stopped her.

"I'm not here about that," he assured her. "While it's important we discuss it, that's not the reason behind my unsolicited visit." Molly cocked her head to the side, waiting to hear his explanation. "It's come to my detention that you're depressed and—"

His jaw dropped when Molly slammed the door in his face. Okay, so he deserved that. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with his own selfish needs, he could've caught this earlier on. Couldn't he have? Dejected, he didn't try bothering her again. Instead, he checked into the nearest inn. Molly didn't want him around, but she needed someone. Normally, he would respect her wishes, but considering the circumstances, Sherlock felt it imperative to at least stay close by in case she decided she needed someone to run to when the dam broke.

* * *

Leaning over the bathroom sink, Molly ran a hand through her hair roughly. When her eyes met her reflection in the mirror, she sighed. Her hair was a knotted mess, there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and there was deathlike pallor to her face. She should know, working with the dead day in and day out. A shower was just what she needed to feel somewhat normal again.

As she sorted through her bags to find her pajamas, her mobile rang. Reluctantly, she picked it up, closing her eyes at the name on the cracked screen. Against her better judgement, she answered. "Hello, Mycroft."

_"Miss Hooper, you must hear me out."_

Molly rolled her eyes. "Still trying to clean up Sherlock's messes, I see. Look I don't want to hear it."

_"And if this incident wasn't Sherlock's mess, but someone else's, would you listen then? It's imperative you know exactly what happened tonight."_

And so she listened to Mycroft's tale, hanging on every word. Afterward, when all was explained, Molly still managed to drag herself into the shower. At least no one could hear her cry.

* * *

When she woke in the morning, Molly's head was pounding. It almost felt like that particularly nasty hangover she had back in uni. As she rolled out of bed, her feet hitting the floor firmly, a knock at the door sounded. Why couldn't anyone leave her alone? She didn't want to be alone anymore, but Molly felt she couldn't turn to anyone. No longer did she know who she could trust. She stood and grabbed her dressing gown before heading downstairs.

For the second day in a row, Molly opened the door to the detective who couldn't seem to take a hint. But after remembering everything Mycroft had told her last night, her face softened. Sherlock had gone through hell with her. "You're still here?"

He flashed an uncomfortable smile, unsure of himself in this moment. He ran a hand through his curls, keeping the other behind his back. "Yeah, well, I thought I should stay in town for a bit—keep an eye on you." His eyes widened, realizing how predatory that sounded. "Not in a stalker kind of way, but as a concerned friend kind of way. May I come in?"

Molly pointed at his left hand in question. "Depends—what's that you're hiding?"

This smile was much more relaxed, friendly. Sherlock held a paper bag up for her to take. "For you. I bought some scones at the bakery across the street from the inn I'm staying at. I thought you'd like some breakfast."

She gingerly grabbed the bag from him and peered inside. "Cinnamon raisin and lemon cranberry," she noted, "my favourites." A hint of a smile began spreading on her face, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice.

"Is that a smile I see?" he asked playfully.

She rolled her eyes. "Just get in here."

Sherlock followed her into the cosy dining room where Molly set the bag of scones on the table. She disappeared into the kitchen and came out with two plates, motioning for him to take a seat. They ate in silence that walked the line of comfortability. Afterwards, she was quick to gather the plates to place them in the sink. "Molly." Sherlock stood. "About the other night, I—"

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," she interrupted him. "Mycroft called last night and told me everything. I can't even begin to understand what you must be going through right now."

He laughed in disbelief. "You're going through so much—you have been for months—and yet you're worried about how I'm holding up."

"Sherlock, I don't want to talk about it!" she snapped. Her face fell then. "Oh, God, I'm sorry for raising my voice, but I'm not in the right state of mind to just have control of my emotions right now."

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Why don't you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know who my real friends are anymore, if I ever had any to begin with. I feel like I can't trust anyone because I've been burned too many times." The tears she fought so hard to keep back began flowing, rivulets sliding down her cheeks. "I was sent a photo—you know your sister pretended to be one of my best friends? Meena." She was full on crying, no longer able to see clearly through her tears. Her sobs wracked her body so much it hurt…up until Sherlock wrapped his arms around her.

"It will be alright, Molly, I promise. Just let it out," he spoke softly. One hand remained on her back, his thumb rubbing circles through her tee; the other hand moved up to the back of her head, cradling it. "You can trust me. I know I haven't been here for you all that much lately, but I promise you our friendship is real." Sherlock nearly cried himself when he felt her arms tighten around him. He didn't know how long they stood there as she cried in his arms, but this was good. If it killed him, he was going to do everything he could to help the woman he so desperately loved.


	2. This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with this chapter. I have no idea why. I guess I felt I couldn't get the right message across. The message being that you need to stop putting up with toxic or selfish behaviors from people even if they are your 'friends.'

She woke to the comforting feeling of fingers gently stroking her hair. From the looks of it, Sherlock had stayed up all night soothing her. Her throat tightened as if she had a lump in it, unsure of what to make of the situation. The panic was rising in her throat as her mind raced. _Why is here? He wants something from me, doesn’t he? What does he want? Why won’t he leave me alone?_ Then, all at once, she scrambled away from him. “Why’d you stay?” It came out sharper than she intended.

Sherlock visibly flinched at her tone. “Because I care for you, Molly.”

Her face was pinched, almost twisted in pain. “Do you?” She watched as Sherlock stood, slowly approaching her as if she were some wild animal ready to pounce. He went to take her hand in his, but she snatched it away and took a step back.

“Of course I do,” he replied, fighting the sad look that came across his face when she pulled away. “I can’t verbalize very well the way I feel, but you must know that you take up my entire heart.”

Molly’s eyes flickered off to the side anxiously and settled back on him. “I can’t believe that.” She took a deep, shaking breath. “Every time I believe someone to care for me as much as I care for them, it always turns out badly. I’m always the one who cares more—too much more. And I get my heart broken every single time. It’s like I’m irrelevant in the lives of the people I care about, like I don’t matter.”

“You matter to me,” he spoke softly. “ Molly, I’m so sorry others’ treatment of you has brought you to this. Those people? They never deserved you. I know I don’t either, but the difference is I desperately want to make things up to you. You probably think everything I do has some ulterior motive because of how I used to behave, but ask yourself what I get out of this situation right now? Go on.”

She thought about it only for a couple minutes. There was no denying it. Sherlock wasn’t doing this because he wanted something from her. There was nothing for him to gain from this. He truly wanted to help. He _cared_. Molly exhaled the breath she had been holding. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have doubted you. It’s just so hard not to.”

This time she allowed him to approach her. She relaxed as his arms wrapped around her, holding her so close to him. Molly had never been handled so tenderly…well, not since—her eyes widened. Every tender moment she recalled was initiated by the man comforting her right now. “You love me,” she mumbled against his chest.

“What was that, darling?” Sherlock actually felt himself blush. He had let that little term of endearment just slip right out. It felt so natural, so right.

Molly pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes. “You love me.” His eyes bore into hers, so many emotions swirling in the sea of his irises.

“I do,” he admitted. “I love you so much, Molly.” And that’s when she began to cry. “I’m sorry, did I upset you?”

She actually laughed. “They’re tears of joy. God, you must think me unstable.”

“Well, depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, so—“ 

“Sod off,” she joked, laughing again. “Should we get breakfast?”

The sudden seriousness took him aback, but he felt there was progress made this morning. A warmth spread throughout his chest every time she laughed—a sound he thought he wouldn’t ever hear again. “What’d you have in mind?”

* * *

As Molly began cracking the eggs into a bowl, Sherlock smirked in amusement. “You know, when you said we should get breakfast, I didn’t think we’d be making waffles from scratch.” He noticed a hint of a smile on her face, leaving him with a warm feeling inside.

“I figured this would be my last chance to cook for a while,” she replied, mixing the flour Sherlock was now pouring in.

“And why is that?” he asked, dabbing a bit of flour on her nose. “You have plans for the rest of your stay?"

Molly sighed. “I wish, but I’m gonna have to go back home sooner than later. I just left without a word. Stamford is probably out of his mind right now wondering where his top pathologist is.”

There was a comfortable silence as the two of them continued to mix ingredients. Finally, when the mix was poured onto the waffle iron, Sherlock spoke up. “I’ll take care of Stamford and let him know you need the time off. You should take it easy for a few days.” He wasn’t sure but it sounded as if Molly sighed in relief; the less stress for her, the better.

He scrunched his brows when his mobile began buzzing. It was John. He answered.

_“Sherlock, where’ve you been? Eurus nearly kills us all and you just disappeared. Molly’s gone too. Are you with her?”_

“I am,” he replied, sneaking out the back door into the garden.

_“Do you know when she’ll be back? I was gonna see if she’d take Rosie this weekend.”_

“She can’t. She won’t be back for a while. I’m staying with her for as long as she wants me to,” Sherlock told him.

_“Are you positive? Can’t I speak with her?”_

A surge of protectiveness ran through him. “Molly isn’t feeling well, John, and I’d appreciate it if you would treat her with respect for once. If it’s urgent for someone to watch Rosie, then I’ll come up myself to do it if it means that Molly will get the rest she needs.”

The radio silence was all Sherlock needed to know that John was still hesitant about allowing Sherlock back into Rosie’s life. He hung up and the detective shook his head in disbelief. The door squeaked open behind him.

“Hey,” Molly greeted him. “Waffles are done.”

He flashed the best smile he could at the moment, and followed her inside, inhaling the aroma of maple and cinnamon. They seated themselves at the small dining table. “Molly?” Her eyes met his, telling him silently to continue. “Do you feel that you got to properly grieve for Mary?”

She let out a disheartened laugh. “Not a bit. I had to hold everyone together, remember? Except I did a rubbish job of it.” Molly took a bite of her waffle from the fork in her hand. “You didn’t have the chance either though…to grieve I mean.”

“I grieved,” he corrected her, “but I had no one to turn to. John made sure of that.”

“I didn’t want to tell you the cruel words he passed on to me. I wanted to be there for you, Sherlock. I know you would’ve been there for me too.” Molly slid her hand over to rest atop of his. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t apologise, Molly. It wasn’t your fault.” And it wasn’t; they both knew that. John couldn’t seem to get off the booze at the time, leaving Molly to be Rosie’s sole caretaker for a few months. And since Sherlock hadn’t been welcomed to be around his goddaughter any longer, it left him without the only friend he had ever trusted completely. And it left Molly without him.

“It wasn’t your fault either,” Molly assured him. “You didn’t kill her. She _chose_ to save your life. And she’d be proud of you right now.” Without thinking, she added, “I’m proud of you too. You’ve endured so much, and instead of allowing it to weaken you, you’ve used it to make yourself stronger.” An image flashed in her mind of when she first met Sherlock Holmes—not the detective, but the twenty-something who overdosed and had found comfort in experimenting in the Bart’s lab with her help.

A beautiful disaster is what they were. And it was time to pick up the pieces. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very personal for me. Most of what Molly's going through is based off of my own depressive episode I've been in since March and I still haven't climbed out yet. In this story, Molly's friend issues are reflective of my string of fake friends and her upcoming reveal of her issues with her estranged mom are reflective of my issues with my dad. This is meant to be a cathartic piece for me. I wasn't going to post it, but it may help someone else. I'd appreciate if criticism was left out of the reviews on this story.


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